Her Crowning Glory, a Tale of Ardor
by Rye-bread
Summary: Blossoming romance, fierce battle, rescuing the endangered heroine, healing the wounded hero, quarreling, and reconciliation, all set amid flamboyant soap opera intensity; what more could one ask of a love story?
1. Chapter 1

Blossoming romance, fierce battle, rescuing the endangered heroine, healing the wounded hero, quarreling, and reconciliation, all set amid flamboyant soap opera intensity; what more could one ask of a love story?

We know how this story ends, but we watch it, read about it, and even write about it; we just can't get enough of it. I wrote this in the vein of my 'Ardent' stories.

With her hair she throws lassoes at me, with her eyes she catches me, with her necklace she entangles me, and with her seal ring she brands me (Song 43 in the Chester Beatty Cycle, translated by W. K. Simpson, ed., The Literature of Ancient Egypt, 324).

Thine head crowns thee like Mount Carmel, and thine flowing hair is like a royal robe. The king is held captive in its tresses. (Song of Solomon 7:5)

But if a woman have long hair, it is a glory to her: for her hair is given her for a covering. (1 Corinthians 11:15)

He Gives His Beloved Certain Rhymes

Fasten your hair with a golden pin, / And bind up every wandering tress; / I bade my heart build these poor rhymes: / It worked at them, day out, day in, / Building a sorrowful loveliness / Out of the battles of old times.

You need but lift a pearl-pale hand, / And bind up your long hair and sigh; / And all men's hearts must burn and beat; / And candle-like foam on the dim sand, / And stars climbing the dew-dropping sky, / Live but to light your passing feet. (by William Butler Yeats)

Then said Olaf, laughing, / "Not ten yoke of oxen / Have the power to draw us / Like a woman's hair! (from The Musician's Tale; The Saga of King Olaf by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)

ON BEAUTY

AND a poet said, Speak to us of Beauty. / And he answered: / Where shall you seek beauty, and how shall you find her / unless she herself be your way and your guide?

/...And in the summer heat the reapers say, "We have seen her dancing / with the autumn leaves, and we saw a drift of snow in her hair." (from The Prophet, by Kalil Gibran)

…The maiden, wonderful as a wonderful dream, harmonious as a work of Praxiteles or as a song, stood alarmed, blushing from modesty, with knees pressed together, with her hands on her bosom, and downcast eyes. At last, raising her arms with sudden movement, she removed the pins which held her hair, and in one moment, with one shake of her head, she covered herself with it as with a mantle. (from Chapter VII, Qup Vadis, a Narrative of the Time of Nero, by Henryk Sienkiewicz)

_**Her Crowning Glory, a Tale of Ardor **_

_**chpt 1**_

_**her rescuer**_

The young man, Adam Seth Jared St. Michael de la Croix Ancr e sur la Montagne, used to be a prince. His family domain had been the ancient princedom of Molyneaux sous la Montagne.

Before his transformation into a 'hideous Beast', as he would one day be called, he had periods of surly tantrums. But he never knew true fury until the day he fell on the wolf pack with berserker madness and scattered them like wisps of straw in a hurricane…to rescue the radiant maiden.

It did not begin well. The radiant maiden, Belle Bricateur, had come to the Château de la Croix Ancrée, seeking her father, whom the hideous Beast had imprisoned, on the flimsy pretext of disturbing the ill-humored creature's peaceful seclusion.

In vain did the hapless fellow profess that he was fleeing the ravening wolves, and would rather have made a wide detour to avoid the inhospitable Beast. The contrary creature took great offense at this inference, construing it in the worst possible fashion

Following her father's trail, the unfortunate man's frantic daughter struck a desperate bargain with the surly dweller of the grim château; if the prisoner were released, she would remain as a willing hostage. The Beast was amenable to the agreement, and promptly tossed the old man into a carriage that, once drawn by a team of fine horses, had conveyed the prince in splendor. Now it crawled like a spider, and conveyed the man back to his village.

The Beast demanded to know her name.

"Belle," the girl told him, downcast.

_Beauty. _It fell on his ear like a song; her voice was the melody, and her name the single sweet lyric.

He was self-absorbed and temperamental; he demanded her company at his evening dinner table. She was despondent at becoming both a captive and an orphan in the span of a single hour. She refused to accommodate him, and he flew into a rage, confining her to her room without supper, as a strict parent would a naughty child.

Bristling at this humiliation, she defied him, cautiously exploring the château by herself. She was unfortunate enough to stumble onto the Beast unexpectedly in his own quarters.

His rage at being disobeyed reached titanic proportions. With a swing of his mace-like fist, he split timbers and demanded her departure.

She fled headlong from his apartments, terrified. She scampered down the grand staircase too rapid for safety, but her fear of the Beast surpassed her fear of injury. She grabbed up her cloak and ran off into the night, heedless of the risk of the wolves her father had earlier fled from.

Aghast at his insensitivity, the Beast belatedly realized his own awful error-he needed her to effect his restoration to humanity.

Stricken with remorse, the Beast watched from his balcony as the girl's draft horse galloped off from the château with her fair form astride the faithful steed. And he saw other forms moving among the trees…mere dots from his vantage, but swift and deadly…wolves. perhaps even the same wolves the girl's father had babbled about.

Thoughtless of danger, the Beast vaulted from the balcony. Grasping the eave like an agile giant primate, he swung down, hand over hand. As soon as he touched the ground, he broke into a four-footed run, his Bestial hind legs enabling him to dart like a rabbit. Draft horses were built for strength, not swiftness. The wolves would overtake the maiden and her mount. And he must overtake the wolves.

The blizzard intensified even as he ran. The swirling snow veiled everything. Trees seemed to rush at him out of the eddy of flakes, and he dodged left and right to avoid colliding with them. There was only the whistle of the wind, the pound of his feet, and the deep rasp of his own breath.

Suddenly the Beast heard the terrified whinny of the horse, and the distraught wail of the girl. He redoubled his pace.

The wind ceased for a moment, and the snow magically cleared. He reached the top of a hill and caught sight of the object of his pursuit

There they were in the little dell below, the horse's reins tangled in a tree branch, the wolves ringing their prey, and the girl valiantly swinging a tree limb like a club to fend them off.

The Beast's heart exalted at this most marvelous maiden. She was as courageous as she was beautiful. Her wail was not a scream of utter terror; she succeeded in keeping her wits about her; and ringed by almost two dozen wolves, she managed to hold the predators at bay

The alpha male of the wolf pack seized her stick and yanked it away, pulling her to the ground. Snarling, it approached her slowly for the kill, its fangs bared. She stared at the bloodthirsty brute, a helpless fear in her eyes. None of them saw the newcomer; tensing himself for his leap, he bounded up like a stone from a catapult. and plummeted down into the dell.

The wolf lunged at Belle…it's jaws were but an arm's length from her throat…and an instantaneous hulking mass of hair, claws, and fangs landed with a resounding _**boom **_in the midst of them. Billows of snow were stirred up like dust.

The wolves, the horse, and the girl were all startled. The draft horse reared up. The wolves drew back, yipping. And Belle stifled a yelp of terror with both her hands.

With his great paw, the Beast seized the creature about to attack Belle by its scruff. It struggled as he lifted it. Gaze to gaze, one dominant predator to another, he unleashed a deafening bellow in its very face that drowned the other wolves' growling like a clap of thunder. He hurled the wolf into a thicket of trees, then turned and planted his four limbs in a defiant stance between the rest of the wolf pack and Belle.

The other wolves were upon him, swarming like ants. In a frenzy, he struck back with closed fist and slashed with clawed paw. If he were a large game animal, they could have dragged him down. If they were small game animals, they could have scattered to safety. But the wolves and the Beast were two of a kind, quick and predatory. No quarter would be given in this battle.

The alpha male returned. It clamped its jaws on his forearm. The Beast closed his own jaws on its neck and shoulders, and it yelped in agony. There was a crack of bone splintering, and the wolf went limp. The Beast shook the carcass like a dog shaking a rat, and flung the body from him with a twist of his head.

At last the wolf pack broke and ran, yipping and whining. More than one wolf lay motionless in the snow. The Beast almost roared again in the unholy joy of his bloody triumph…until he chanced to glimpse the one whose peril occasioned his berserker mood…Belle.

She was fumbling with the horse's reins. At last she dared to turn her head and look at him. the terror in her eyes at the sight of him was great as it had been when she beheld the wolf, and dreaded her death-as great as her father's terror had been.

For the barest moment, they regarded each other. Her hair had come unbound; it wafted in the wind of the blizzard like willow tree branches, her tresses flowing about her head with the snowflakes. Her cloak adorned her slender frame like a royal robe. Her little hands clutched at the hem, trying to keep herself covered from the wind. She was shivering pitifully. Despite that, she looked exquisite, like a vision.

He knew he was a bloody spectacle. Great patches of snow in the dell were stained with it, both his and the wolves'. The fur on his chest and limbs was scratched and matted with blood. The bite wound on his arm bled freely. With his uninjured arm, he wiped his mouth, and saw the blood from the wolf he had bitten.

His heart quailed. His rage had driven her from the shelter of the château into the hazards of the forest, with its frigid temperatures and its ravenous predators. She had no more reason to trust him to be her rescuer than to trust the very wolves.

He took a step, and she backed away a step. He raised the unscathed forepaw as if to beckon, and tried to speak reassuringly. She flinched at his movement. He tried to call her by name, to apologize for his wicked temper. To beg her not to flee. To promise to be kinder and less explosive. He tried to make his voice heard above the wail of the wind, beseeching her forgiveness for frightening her. All that came out of his mouth was a strangled cry, a disconsolate animal keening sound. Then his eyesight darkened and his knees buckled. Before he collapsed facedown in the snow, he was already unconscious.

The Beast awoke in the château…in his own den, with the roaring fire in the hearth, the thick cushy hearthrug on the flagstone floor, and the big overstuffed chair. Somehow Belle had conveyed him here, to the very place where he had found her father, before tossing the poor hapless man into a dungeon cell. In mute astonishment, he wondered at the girl's abilities, what manner of power she must wield to accomplish that feat.

She appeared, carrying a basin of steaming water with both hands. The water gave off the acrid smell of antiseptic. Over her arm were draped clean linen that the housekeeper kept for bandages. The girl had laid aside her cloak and rolled up her sleeves, baring her slender forearms.

But what entranced him was her hair. It was still as it had been in the woods, unbound from her ponytail. Falling past her shoulders, and down to her back and upper arms, it adorned her head and shoulders like a Madonna's veil, forming itself to her contours. In another way, though, her hair seemed to float around her head like an ethereal mist, its sheen mimicking the brightness of an angelic halo.

"I'm going to bandage your wound, Monsieur Beast," she said in a low voice, kneeling beside him. She dipped a cloth in the basin of water and wrung it out.

While she was leaning over his arm, dabbing his wound with the cloth, some of her locks spilled over her shoulders, and rested on her bosom in pliant curls. Her face, with its eyes downcast and lips drawn like a bow, was framed by her loose tresses, and looked even more beguiling.

He remembered something he heard as a young lad: a woman's hair her crowning glory. Belle's crowning glory had a mysterious quality, as dark as stained oak, yet as glossy and as shimmering as the noonday sun on running water. It looked as soft and smooth as satin. She absently tucked the hair that obstructed her vision behind her ears, first the left, then the right. He saw, closer than ever, the dimples of her cheek, the lines of her jaw, and the roundness of her ears. He longed to touch even a silken strand of her hair, to satisfy his burning curiosity. But he dared not.

The antiseptic stung him while she was binding up his wounds, and his temper grew short again. She responded this time in kind, answering him outburst for outburst, and retort for retort.

Her eyes threw sparks. She balled her hands into little fists. Her little mouth hardened into a harsh frown. Her hair seemed to surge about her head like a stallion's mane when it rears up. The tables had turned; the unwilling guest was now the mistress of the château

She daunted the Beast badly, like a hissing spitting housecat might daunt a big curious ambling dog. And the Beast wondered for a moment if this little village girl were in reality the Enchantress who transformed him, and all the inhabitants of the château, returning in a new concealment, to test him again.

For the first time in his life, he was cowed into submission. Perhaps she was indeed an enchantress. It could not be denied that she enchanted, enthralled, and fascinated him. He was awed, charmed, and smitten all at once. He remained subdued while she finished binding his wound.

"By the way," she murmured, in a soft dulcet voice, "Thank you for saving me." She looked up with her big expressive eyes from tending his arm, and blinked.

Like boulders careening down a mountainside, those few words and that single glance set off an avalanche of emotions in his heart, To say he felt thrilled is to say that a torrential rainfall produces some slight moisture. All his lands, titles, wealth, possessions, and authority were as chaff in the wind compared to her single expression of gratitude. He felt he could willingly face a legion of slavering predators to earn another little murmured word of thanks. Mastering his overwhelmed senses, he managed a rasping "You're welcome…Belle."

It was as though his mention of her name was a magic word. A noticeable little smile flickered on her lips in response, as she completed the binding of his wound. He had to press his uninjured hand to his chest to keep his pounding heart from rupturing his ribs.

His eyes followed her as she stood up and gathered her hair back off her shoulders and bound up her tresses in a ponytail. He felt suddenly deprived, as though a great honor had been withdrawn. And before he was aware of it, she was gone from the den, back up to her queenly bedchamber, the gilded cage he had imposed on her. Her presence had been light and music, and her departure greatly diminished the chamber.

In the silence, with only the crackling of the fire in the hearth, the Beast was overwhelmed again. Ecstasy and despair both warred in his heart. He felt like a thief who had come into possession of a single fabulous gem, unearned, the single moment of her appreciation. A whole vast hoard was his for the having…if only he could find the key.

He understood at last what the Enchantress meant when she gave him the resplendent Rose in the bell jar. _"If you can learn to love another, and earn her love in return by the time the last petal falls, then the spell will be broken."_

He had contrived to make Belle a captive in exchange for her father's freedom; of course it was an unjust agreement. But he no longer saw her simply as a means to an end. In the span of a single night, he had learned to care for another's wellbeing more than his. Beauty had tamed the Beast.

He had defended Belle at the risk of life and limb. And she had had bestowed her regard on him. The reward was more than worth the price. In the thrill of the moment, her favor meant more to him than the possible restoration of his humanity. His heart was lost to her.

And the task the Enchantress had set before him was to somehow win Belle's heart as she had won his.

A / N

First, this chpt. is a recreation of a scene from the Disney movie. I was enthralled by Belle's flowing hair, and I tried to convey it in the Beast's response. This chpt. is from the Beast's POV; the next chpt. will be from Belle's POV.

Second, the names have various sources. As explained by the Little details in fanfic page at the BaTB fansite Bittersweet and Strange, the name of Molyneaux as Belle's village is of fanon origin, chosen randomly by a few fanwriters from French place names, and then accepted by a groundswell of more fanwriters.

The choice of 'Adam' as the Beast's human name is a little more obscure.

Various opinions are bounced around on the webpage's conversation thread. I myself recall hearing the name 'Adam' cited on a cassette tape children's audio book recitation of the Disney movie 'way back in the 1990's…I think. And in my overwrought way, I expanded on the fanon names of the Beast and the village.

The names 'Adam Seth Jared' are derived from the genealogy of Adam to Noah, found in 1 Chronicles 1:1-3.

St. Michael is one of the patron saints of France. His shrine is found on Mont St. Michael. It used to be an island, until the land rose over geologic time. I almost made it the location of Molyneaux, but decided to let Molyneaux remain a generic French rural village without any particular locale.

'De la Croix Ancrée sur la Montagne'; that's complicated. Molyneaux, and its variants, Molyneux, etc, are common names in France. According to Wikipedia, a nobleman of that name accompanied William of Normandy when he conquered England in 1066. There are branches of the family in both the UK and the USA. The family residence was at the site of Castle Molyneux, at Moulineaux-Sur-Seine in Normandy.

The coat-of-arms of the English families include a moline cross, or croix ancrée, as it is called in French, similar to a Maltese cross. Is the name 'Molyneux' a derivative of the word 'moline'? Nothing I read mentioned that. But all the names are startlingly similar.

And the 'ancient princedom of Molyneaux sous la Montagne'; it's a place name I invented; 'Molyneaux under the mountain', like Moulineaux-Sur-Seine', 'Moulineaux on the Seine (River)', which is real. I'm working on a backstory connecting Adam's family with Belle's village.

Third, my verbose writing style; numerous essays on how to write urge the would-be writer to be sparing with words, and let the story tell itself. I am a colossal failure in this aspect.

Modern writing is like Modernist painting, minimalist and utilitarian. I've gotten into the stirring romances of the 19th century, books like Charlotte Brontë's Jane Eyre, Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice, Alexandre Dumas's The Count of Monte Cristo, and Victor Hugo's The Hunchback of Notre Dame. They write like the old masters of oil painting, Rubens and Rembrandt, lush with detail and as extravagant with words as the painters with paint.

Oh, yeah, while I'm baring my conscience; it's probably no surprise to those few who are my dogged loyal readers that I'm a devout delayer. I refer to myself in my FF-dot-net profile as Glacially Slow; am thinking I should change that to Geologically Slow, like continental drift.

It's now been almost six years since my divorce. There's an old saying about not letting grass grow under one's feet, which is a metaphor for prompt completion of one's tasks. If I look real close under my feet, I might find prairies of grassland as far as the eye can see; or maybe a vast redwood forest.


	2. Chapter 2

With her hair she throws lassoes at me, with her eyes she catches me, with her necklace she entangles me, and with her seal ring she brands me (Song 43 in the Chester Beatty Cycle, translated by W. K. Simpson, ed., The Literature of Ancient Egypt, 324).

Thine head crowns thee like Mount Carmel, and thine flowing hair is like a royal robe. The king is held captive in its tresses. (Song of Solomon 7:5)

But if a woman have long hair, it is a glory to her: for her hair is given her for a covering. (1 Corinthians 11:15)

He Gives His Beloved Certain Rhymes

Fasten your hair with a golden pin, / And bind up every wandering tress; / I bade my heart build these poor rhymes: / It worked at them, day out, day in, / Building a sorrowful loveliness / Out of the battles of old times.

You need but lift a pearl-pale hand, / And bind up your long hair and sigh; / And all men's hearts must burn and beat; / And candle-like foam on the dim sand, / And stars climbing the dew-dropping sky, / Live but to light your passing feet. (by William Butler Yeats)

Then said Olaf, laughing, / "Not ten yoke of oxen / Have the power to draw us / Like a woman's hair! (from The Musician's Tale; The Saga of King Olaf by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)

ON BEAUTY

AND a poet said, Speak to us of Beauty. / And he answered: / Where shall you seek beauty, and how shall you find her / unless she herself be your way and your guide?

/...And in the summer heat the reapers say, "We have seen her dancing / with the autumn leaves, and we saw a drift of snow in her hair." (from The Prophet, by Kalil Gibran)

…The maiden, wonderful as a wonderful dream, harmonious as a work of Praxiteles or as a song, stood alarmed, blushing from modesty, with knees pressed together, with her hands on her bosom, and downcast eyes. At last, raising her arms with sudden movement, she removed the pins which held her hair, and in one moment, with one shake of her head, she covered herself with it as with a mantle. (from Chapter VII, Qup Vadis, a Narrative of the Time of Nero, by Henryk Sienkiewicz)

_**Her Crowning Glory, a Tale of Ardor **_

_**chpt 2**_

_**her attendant**_

It was one day while Belle and the Beast were walking through the forest that they had one of their impromptu games of hide-and-seek again. Belle got her hair stuck in some tree branches.

"Here," the Beast said gently, "Let me help…since it's my fault that you ran among the branches.

She was afraid he would pull her hair and entangle it worse in the branches, but she hardly felt a tug. In the process, he had to undo her ponytail.

"You have such beautiful hair, Belle," he murmured. "I'm surprised you don't wear it down."

She blushed at the sudden and unexpected compliment. She gulped, and murmured "Thank you," in response. "I left it unbound when I was a child," she continued. "My mother brushed it out every night. She would tell me how beautiful it was, too. She said her mother would say the same thing to her. Alas…I never knew my grandmother. She died young, just like my mother. And since that time, I've put my hair back in this plain fashion…very commonsensical, " she added, giggling.

"I'm very sorry," he answered, "Both that your mother should die so young, and that your beautiful hair shouldn't flow freely in the wind. He sounded both sympathetic and poetic. She was taken aback even more.

"I saw your hair unbound that first night," he continued, his eyes cast down, as though confessing. "You were so very beautiful in your fury."

The Beast's sudden bit of divulgence left Belle stunned and tongue-tied. He was referring to the night she had come to the château looking for her father, and consenting to be the Beast's lifelong hostage in exchange for her father's release.

The Beast had unleashed his own fury, angered at her refusal to dine with him, angered at her intrusion in the West Wing, and finally ferociously defending her life and limb from the ravenous wolf pack.

If she had known he was that enamored with her, things might have gone far differently…or maybe not.

It was that evening, when Belle was in her nightgown and dressing gown, that a knock came on her bedchamber door. "Come in," she said, assuming it was Mrs. Potts, or one of the other servants. The animated comb and brush were just beginning to groom her hair and braid it for her nightly slumber.

To her shock, it was the Beast who opened the door. "May I enter your room? " he asked quietly.

Swallowing her amazement and unable to speak, she nodded. She tried to say, _"Please do," _but her throat felt too dry.

With great boldness yet a humble deference, he took up the brush in his oversized paw. "May I?" he asked sonorously.

She nodded again, wide-eyed and a little nervous.

Standing behind her while she sat on the vanity stool, he first stroked her hair, smoothing it down. The touch of his hand along the back of her head sent an electric thrill through her that she felt down to her toes.

In her father's shop, where he built many inventions, some functional and some not, was an electrical battery. As a child, she had once touched the battery's twin terminals, and received a nasty jolt. The sensation that raced through her this time was far more pleasant.

The Beast began to brush out her locks, first from the crown of her head, along the sides and back, then from her forehead, brushing her bangs back from her face. After this, he brushed from her temples, guiding the brush around her ears and down her neck.

The floating of the bristles across her scalp felt soothing, and associated images arose in her imagination; images of water trickling in a brook and wind blowing in waves over a field of ripe grain.

The sensation of brushing the more sensitive areas, around her ears, and the back of her neck, produce a most delicious tingling; she nearly succeeded in suppressing an involuntary shiver.

He brushed under her hair up from the nape of her neck, bringing about a more pronounced tremble, and causing her to tighten her hands, and gasp, as though splashed with cold water.

She was astonished. She had never experienced so gentle, so meticulous, so unhurried a hair-brushing…not since the last time her mother had performed the service, before her final illness. And of a certainty, her mother's brushing did not elicit so sensual a reaction.

Belle at first watched the Beast's face in the mirror, above and behind her. He appeared as composed and intent as the carefulness with which he set about his appointed task. And he appeared not to have noticed her extreme responses.

With a contented sigh, she finally submitted to his gentle attentions. She found herself closing her eyes, tilting her head back, and murmured a soft moan of pleasure, hardly audible. His ministrations were hypnotic; she found herself drifting, and fought to stay awake; it would not do to drift suddenly into deep sleep and topple off the vanity stool, she thought wryly.

She had no doubt he would catch her if she did drift off…and she suddenly envisioned swooning in the Beast's arms. She felt a hot flush of embarrassment…or was it delight…at this scandalous fantasy. She was certain she must be blushing, and was afraid to look too intently at herself in the mirror to confirm it. But the Beast said nothing.

He even braided her hair, as meticulously and carefully as she used to, in her father's house in Molyneaux, and as the servants did here in the château. The slight pull on her hair was not at all painful, and the mesmerizing effect continued as she felt the plaiting of her tresses on the back of her neck.

"Thank you, Beast," she said softly, still surprised at the spontaneity of his self-appointment as her 'handmaiden'…she giggled inwardly at this thought…and was even disappointed that the tender treatment he lavished on her was concluded so quickly.

When he had completed his task, he stroked her head one more time, then rested his hands on her shoulders, and lightly gripped her upper arms. "You're welcome, Belle," he murmured in a basso rumble.

Belle's heart thumped and her entire body tingled at the touch of those mighty and gentle hands. The material of her dressing gown was satiny, and the material of her nightgown was of the sheerest silk, so there was hardly any sensation at all of a garment between his powerful hands and the skin of her slender shoulders and arms. It almost felt like the smooth fabric was slipping off her shoulders. In somewhat alarm, she clutched frantically at the neckline of her gown, as though to preserve her modesty.

But the Beast was not endeavoring to bare her shoulders, as that wretch back in Molyneaux might…her leering would-be suitor, Gaston. Instead, the

Master of the château had merely bestowed on her a tender affectionate touch.

She had to swallow the lump in her throat and suppress again the involuntary quivers that resulted at his final caress. She turned her head to murmur another heartfelt _Thank you_…and saw him already leaving the room. Sadly, feeling suddenly deprived of pleasant companionship, she turned back from the door to face the mirror.

She stared at the face she saw, as though for the first time. It was the face of her mother, Jeanne Marie Bricateur, as Belle remembered her…for, while Belle parted her hair on the left, Jeanne Marie had parted her hair on the right…as the reflection seemed to show.

Monsieur Relieu's bookshop in Molyneaux, where Belle used to browse almost daily, had a book of fine art and paintings in European museums. The face Belle saw in the mirror might be found in a Titian painting, or a Rembrandt. The eyes were lustrous, the nose was pert, the mouth had the slightest hint of pensiveness, and the chin was dimpled. The braided hair was as dark and smooth as polished maple wood. The blue of the hair ribbon matched the rich blue of the dressing gown. The neck was slender, and the neckline of the immaculate white nightgown was revealing enough to show just a hint of cleavage. Such a face was what Belle might visualize as belonging to a lovely princess when reading one of her fairy tales. And now such a face was hers.

She went to bed, drawing up the covers, with an almost childlike regret…that the Beast had not tucked her in and kissed her goodnight, as her mother used to do. And she realized with a shock how endearing he was becoming to her.

She sat up abruptly in bed, aghast at the sudden realization of her feelings of fondness for him. But another part of her was not amazed in the slightest. On the contrary, her expectations would have been upset if no gradual closeness were taking place between the gentle Bestial master of the château and his increasingly-willing hostage.

_There's something sweet / And almost kind / But he was mean / And he was coarse and unrefined. / But now he's dear / And so unsure, / I wonder why I didn't see it there before._

Belle herself was unsure, and was aware of an inner conflict. Her mind was thoroughly unsettled and confused. But her heart was as content as a weaned infant, and as placid as a lake on an unwindy summer day.

For her heart already comprehended what her mind had yet to realize…like a reader skipping ahead in a book and find out what the book's protagonist did not yet know.

_Oh! Isn't this amazing! / It's my favorite part because, you'll see! / Here's where she meets Prince Charming / But she won't discover that it's him 'til chapter three!_

Sighing, she lay her head back down on the pillow. The languor of the

Beast's extraordinary grooming, and the delight of being primped and fussed over, stole over her. The placidity overwhelmed the confusion, and a slumber most sweet overtook her.

A / N

This chpt's composition actually precedes that of the 1st chpt. It was inspired by a couple things.

First, this is a portrayal of the Beast that tries to conform more to the classic literary tradition of the original story than the Disney adaptation. In the original story, the Beast is less a spoiled immature brat than he is an afflicted sovereign, imprisoned in his own tiny fairy tale realm. Within that realm, he is a veritable magical king; he holds absolute sway, bringing inanimate objects to life, and controlling the forces of nature. But to reclaim his original status, he must woo a girl.

He courts Belle from the very beginning of her stay at his castle, asking her to marry him, which she politely declines. He is the perfect gentleman, the very picture of decorous deference, asking her at every juncture if he might dine with her, or walk with her, or otherwise spend time in her company.

In the old French movie, La Belle Et La Bte, directed by Jean Cocteau, and released in 1946, the Beast goes so far as to tell Belle that she is now the mistress of the castle, and he is her servant. She is equally courteous, demurely telling him that she craves his company, and misses him when he isn't with her. I'm an incurable romantic sentimentalist at heart; their courtship is sweet and fragile; it's a most magical movie, and I can't recommend it strongly enough.

The second inspiration is something called A.S.M.R.: Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response. Those who experience it describe it as warmth, tingles, and a sense of wellbeing. It can be induced by touch, sight, and sound. Like fanfiction, cosplay, and many other trends, an online subculture exists to promote and share the interest. A plethora of videos exist on Youtube, where the uploaders brush hair, rustle fabric, clink beads, perform backrubs, and give softly-spoken recitations, all to induce the physical sensations.

There's a fierce debate as to whether it exists. Detractors insist that, like acupuncture and chiropractic, there is no clinical data to support the claims of its adherents. What do I think? For years, I've loved the shows on public television where the painter shows how to paint a picture. I love watching a masseur / masseuse at work as much as being the actual recipient of a massage. I can most def feel the intangible caress on my psyche. There's some kind of psychological or neurological dynamic going on, whatever people may call it.

This fanstory was written in the vein of my other two BaTB 'Ardent' fanstories. I continue to compose my fanstories the way Leonardo da Vinci reputedly painted the Mona Lisa, a few brushstrokes a day over a period of twenty years. Once in a while an idea hits like Isaac Newton's apple, and I finish a fic in a few days or weeks instead of a few years.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Her Crowning Glory, a Tale of Ardor **_

_**chpt 3**_

From chpt 1

_But what entranced him was her hair. It was still as it had been in the woods, unbound from her ponytail. Falling past her shoulders, and down to her back and upper arms, it adorned her head and shoulders like a Madonna's veil, forming itself to her contours. In another way, though, her hair seemed to float around her head like an ethereal mist, its sheen mimicking the brightness of an angelic halo._

"_I'm going to bandage your wound, Monsieur Beast," she said in a low voice, kneeling beside him. She dipped a cloth in the basin of water and wrung it out._

_While she was leaning over his arm, dabbing his wound with the cloth, some of her locks spilled over her shoulders, and rested on her bosom in pliant curls. Her face, with its eyes downcast and lips drawn like a bow, was framed by her loose tresses, and looked even more beguiling._

_He remembered something he heard as a young lad: a woman's hair her crowning glory. Belle's crowing glory had a mysterious quality, as dark as stained oak, yet as glossy and as shimmering as the noonday sun on running water. It looked as soft and smooth as satin. She absently tucked the hair that obstructed her vision behind her ears, first the left, then the right. He saw, closer than ever, the dimples of her cheek, the lines of her jaw, and the roundness of her ears. He longed to touch even a silken strand of her hair, to satisfy his burning curiosity. But he dared not._

…

_His eyes followed her as she stood up and gathered her hair back off her shoulders and bound up her tresses in a ponytail. He felt suddenly deprived, as though a great honor had been withdrawn. And before he was aware of it, she was gone from the den, back up to her queenly bedchamber, the gilded cage he had imposed on her. Her presence had been light and music, and her departure greatly diminished the chamber._

From chpt 2

_It was one day while Belle and the Beast were walking through the forest that they had one of their impromptu games of hide-and-seek again. Belle got her hair stuck in some tree branches._

"_Here," the Beast said gently, "Let me help…since it's my fault that you ran among the branches._

_She was afraid he would pull her hair and entangle it worse in the branches, but she hardly felt a tug. In the process, he had to undo her ponytail._

"_You have such beautiful hair, Belle," he murmured. "I'm surprised you don't wear it down."_

_She blushed at the sudden and unexpected compliment. She gulped, and murmured "Thank you," in response. "I left it unbound when I was a child," she continued. "My mother brushed it out every night. She would tell me how beautiful it was, too. She said her mother would say the same thing to her. Alas…I never knew my grandmother. She died young, just like my mother. And since that time, I've put my hair back in this plain fashion…very commonsensical, " she added, giggling._

"_I'm very sorry," he answered, "Both that your mother should die so young, and that your beautiful hair shouldn't flow freely in the wind. He sounded both sympathetic and poetic. She was taken aback even more._

…

_It was that evening, when Belle was in her nightgown and dressing gown, that a knock came on her bedchamber door. "Come in," she said, assuming it was Mrs. Potts, or one of the other servants. The animated comb and brush were just beginning to groom her hair and braid it for her nightly slumber._

_To her shock, it was the Beast who opened the door. "May I enter your room? " he asked quietly. _

_Swallowing her amazement and unable to speak, she nodded. She tried to say, "Please do," but her throat felt too dry._

_With great boldness yet a humble deference, he took up the brush in his oversized paw. "May I?" he asked sonorously._

_She nodded again, wide-eyed and a little nervous._

_Standing behind her while she sat on the vanity stool, he first stroked her hair, smoothing it down. The touch of his hand along the back of her head sent an electric thrill through her that she felt down to her toes. _

…

_She was astonished. She had never experienced so gentle, so meticulous, so unhurried a hair-brushing…not since the last time her mother had performed the service, before her final illness. And of a certainty, her mother's brushing did not elicit so sensual a reaction._

…

_He even braided her hair, as meticulously and carefully as she used to, in her father's house in Molyneaux, and as the servants did here in the château. The slight pull on her hair was not at all painful, and the mesmerizing effect continued as she felt the plaiting of her tresses on the back of her neck._

"_Thank you, Beast," she said softly, still surprised at the spontaneity of his self-appointment as her 'handmaiden'…she giggled inwardly at this thought…and was even disappointed that the tender treatment he lavished on her was concluded so quickly._

…

_She had to swallow the lump in her throat and suppress again the involuntary quivers that resulted at his final caress. She turned her head to murmur another heartfelt "Thank you"…and saw him already leaving the room. Sadly, feeling suddenly deprived of pleasant companionship, she turned back from the door to face the mirror. _

_**chpt 3**_

The Beast scarcely left Belle's bedchamber before bracing himself against a wall, panting and gasping for breath. His heart was thudding in his chest like the booming voice of the Giant from the story Belle once read of Jack And The Beanstalk. His garments were sodden with sweat. Stooping, he slowly lowered himself to all fours. The muscles of his limbs quivered as though with great exertion. But the enormous effort he had expended was not physical; all his labor had been of the mind and heart.

The first time he had seen Belle with her hair unbound was the night he had defended her from the wolves. The second time was today, when he had loosened her ponytail from the tangle of the tree branches. On the first occasion, he had longed to caress but a single lock of that lustrous softness, but dared not. Today, he dared.

He could see that he had startled her when he had hesitantly entered her bedchamber. He could see that he had further astonished her when he asked if he might brush her hair. She had nodded mutely, staring up at him with those big appealing eyes. He wondered if she was as afraid to speak as he was.

He and Belle had read together in Shakespeare's The Tragedy Of Romeo And Juliet of the lovers' first timid exchange of words. He felt that Shakespeare must have seriously underestimated the apprehension that Romeo felt the first time he reached out and touched Juliet's hand, and the recklessness required of him to do this daring deed.

_Romeo. If I profane with my unworthiest hand / This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this: / My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand / To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss._

_Juliet. Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, / Which mannerly devotion shows in this; / For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, / And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss._

_Romeo. Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?_

_Juliet. Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in pray'r._

_Romeo. O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do! / They pray; grant thou, lest faith turn to despair._

_Juliet. Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake._

_Romeo. Then move not while my prayer's effect I take. / Thus from my lips, by thine my sin is purg'd. [Kisses her.]_

_Juliet. Then have my lips the sin that they have took._

_Romeo. Sin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urg'd! / Give me my sin again. [Kisses her.]_

The mere sight of Belle's unbound hair cascading from her head and spilling onto her shoulders almost overwhelmed him. He had never before beheld it from this perspective. Its lustrous waves shimmered like teakwood coated with resin and polished to a smooth finish. Its splendor surpassed that of strands of pearls, and jeweled necklaces, and molten gold.

With caution and deliberation, he had taken up her brush and was smoothing down her hair There was no fabric in the entire château with this kind of texture. The feel of its glossy silkiness on his hand nearly drove him to a state of…of...

He didn't know what to call what he was feeling; it was a turmoil but it was also a delight. He had wanted to gently grasp her flowing hair with both hands and bury his face in it, to inhale deeply of whatever fragrance it might have…for he assumed that something that appeared so beautiful must smell equally beautiful, like flowers in the spring, fruit in the autumn, or grass after a rain. But he managed to restrain himself.

He had marveled at the roundness of her head from this perspective. It was a perfect roundness, like that of a full moon, covered as it was by the silken tresses. Her head was not disfigured by a shaggy mane or an obscene pair of twisted horns, he had said to himself, in a moment of self-loathing.

Having no idea how to proceed, he had merely begun to brush her hair off her face, around her ears, and down the back of her head and neck.

He was gratified by the way she had leaned her head back, and the gentle sighs she had made. He had noticed a shudder run through her whole body when he had brushed up from the back of her neck; in an anxious moment, he was afraid he had pulled too hard. But when he heard her moan, he knew that he had imparted a more-than-pleasant sensation.

He would try to glance at both their reflections in the vanity mirror. He noticed her doing the same, seemingly trying to catch his eye, but he forced himself to look impassive.

He would have prolonged this for hours, but was afraid he was already imposing on her sleep. So he braided her hair the way he remembered seeing the maidservants braid his mother's hair in his youth…it seemed ages ago. He could remember little of his parents before their departing the château and the estate to embark on a voyage across the Channel

They were to travel overland by coach to Calais, then bock passage on a ship bound for Dover, across La Manche, as the French called the English Channel, and from thence to London.. He had desperately wanted to go with them, but he was too young, they said. They had left him in the capable care of Cogsworth and Mrs. Potts, assuring him that they would be back in a mere couple weeks.

But the weeks had become a month. And Mrs. Potts had quietly taken the young Prince Adam aside, and told him that the ship had disappeared in a sudden squall…

And from that moment, the heartbroken lad had forgotten the admonitions of his noble father to always remember that a prince was obligated to rule with mercy, for both kings and commoners were answerable to a Heavenly Sovereign. Young Adam Seth Jared St. Michael of the noble house of Croix Ancrée sur la Montagne had forgotten himself and had given himself over to bitterness and hostility…

…The Beast shook his head even while he was concluding putting the braid in Belle's hair. These were old memories, buried deep, never divulged, still painful, like a wound that would not heal. He had allowed himself to be distracted from the pleasant task she had permitted him to carry out for her. And he had wanted no distractions while engaged in the most pleasant task he could ever remember doing.

It couldn't be helped; his task was complete. And the Beast could think of no excuse to prolong his presence in Belle's bedchamber. He assumed that even now, she must have been weary of his intrusion and his company, and his departure from her boudoir couldn't come soon enough. He therefore quietly slipped from Belle's presence and bedchamber before she even noticed he was gone.

The two opposing moods gushed in his soul like a flash flood in a dry riverbed and threatened to overwhelm his carefully preserved appearance of nonchalance. The one mood was of sheer delight at finally gaining the privilege of caressing and fondling Belle's crowning glory, and the other a mood of sheer pathos that the delight of grooming her crowning glory should end so abruptly.

So here he was in the corridor near the stairwell, nursing in his bosom both ecstasy and melancholy. Feeling completely spent, he crawled down the stairs on all fours, fearing that he would tumble down if he stood erect.

The Beast did not run feral through the woods and hills as he usually might to relieve his turbulent emotions, stalking prey and roiling in the nighttime dew. Instead he returned to the refuge of the ruined West Wing.

Stripping himself of his perspiration-soaked shirt, he wrapped himself in his cloak and gazed meditatively at the glowing enchanted Rose floating suspended in space in the bell jar. Glittering diamond dewdrops continually fell from the bloom like water dripping from the trees after a rain.

With the glow of the Rose suffusing his vision, and the glory of Belle suffusing his thoughts, the Beast finally curled up on the floor, his head pillowed by one of the several volumes of the plays of William Shakespeare he had obtained from his own library, and drifted off to sleep, even as Belle was already dreaming of her Bête and his gentle ministrations on her.

It was painfully paradoxical; both grieved for their departed parents, and were preoccupied with each other; each was saddened by the other's departure, and neither was aware that their company was craved by the other. Both were shyly faltering their way into first love.

It would be yet many more months before a complicated crisis would bring the matter to a head…Belle's father Maurice Bricateur losing himself in the woods during another snowstorm in an ill-conceived attempt to single-handedly rescue his daughter from an imprisonment she no longer found unpleasant…and Gaston Duchasse's twin nefarious schemes, to force Belle to marry him by threatening to confine Maurice in Monsieur D'Arque's insane asylum, and to incite the credulous populace of Molyneaux to besiege and destroy the château, allowing Gaston himself to underhandedly kill a hated rival for Belle's heart.

But that is another story.

A / N

I'm telling you…reading Dante's La Vita Nuova and Boccaccio's Life Of Dante, and watching the old tearjerker movies (I'll Never Forget You, with Ann Blyth and Tyrone Power, for the record) does strange things to one's head.

I was reading of Dante's adoration and his unrequited love for Beatrice, and the thought came to mind how the Beast had so longed to stroke even a lock of Belle's hair in the first chapter, and how he finally got the opportunity in the second chapter , and what the fulfillment of that desire must be doing to his heart and soul.

And it also struck me between the eyes…the twin theme of bereavement for both of them…my own plot development, and I wasn't even picking up on the possibilities…duh. But the Muse beguiled, and this chapter came out.

The genesis of my name for the Prince before he became the Beast, "Adam Seth Jared St. Michael de la Croix Ancrée sur la Montagne," is explained in wearisome detail in the author's notes for chpt 1. The back-story of how his parents met their demise and left him orphaned is inspired by the Disney movie Frozen, and is a work in progress. Maurice and Belle's last name, Bricateur, is derived from an alternate word for 'inventor', 'fabricator', according to Google Translate. This in turn derives from the naming convention of many books and shows; William Shakespeare, Charles Dickens, and even the storywriters of the Kim Possible series use plays on words for the names of the characters, drawing upon their personality traits and vocations.

Speaking of Google Translate: I needed a last name for Gaston, so I consulted the site, and learned that the French word for 'hunter' (Gaston's vocation) was 'chasseur'. As I did with other surnames in the story, I adapted it to look like a last name, and came up with 'Gaston Duchasse'.

Google Translate is of course as dependable for accurate translation as a medical thermometer is for measuring the outside air temperature.

In doing my research for what the French call the English Channel, I learned that there has been regular travel back and forth between the U.K. and France since the early 1800's; it wasn't the hazardous venture that it would have been a few centuries before.

This sort of throws the whole setting of my BaTB fanstory into renewed consideration; the classic setting of the BaTB tales is in the baroque era, or earlier. But the 1800's was the age of burgeoning technology; and many fairy story anthologies, such as the Grimm Bros, were being published. I must muse on the matter further; am open to input from my readers.

Believe it or not, I'm still working on my Kim Possible fic's, my Indiana Jones fic, my Jenny Wakeman fic, my Ebenezer Scrooge fic, and my Minerva Mink fic…assuming my various fanons have any readers in common.

I'm as procrastinative with answering reviews as I am with updating stories. But I thank each and every reader who takes the time and trouble to plod through my overblown prose. Y'all rock. Vaya con Dios.


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